


Snapshots

by samuelbyrnes



Series: Paul Rovia Appreciation Week 2019 [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Paul Rovia Appreciation Week, Paul Rovia Appreciation Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samuelbyrnes/pseuds/samuelbyrnes
Summary: Little snapshots into the life of one Paul "Jesus" Rovia.For the Paul Rovia Appreciation Week 2019 over on Tumblr.





	Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> I literally just threw this together today. I was intending for something a little more, but this is what my brain gave me. I honestly wasn't expecting the angst, but here we are. Fingers crossed that I'll throw something fluffy out in the next day or so.

The first memory Paul remembers is when he was around two or three. He'd been sitting on the carpet in the living room, entertaining himself with some colorful blocks when he heard what sounded like crying. It sounded muffled, like whoever it was was trying to keep it quiet, but Paul still heard it. Confused and worried, he got up and toddled towards the noise, one hand brushing along the wall to steady himself. He soon stopped and stared at the closed door where the crying was coming from, then up to the doorknob with a frown. Carefully, he leaned himself against the door and reached up, grunting softly as his fingers scrabbled for the knob. Before he could get his hand around the knob, the door opened unexpectedly and he tumbled forward with a surprised yelp. He hit the floor with a thump and the combination of surprise and pain caused him to start crying. He whimpered when he was picked up, curling himself into the bosom of his mother, who was whispering softly in his ear.

"Shh, baby boy," she murmured, gently petting his sore head. "Just a little bump on the head. That's it." She kissed his forehead as his crying slowly petered off. "There we are." She pulled back to look at him, a warm smile on her lips. "My little ninja, sneaking up on me." 

He's not sure what happened after that, the memories fading in and out, blurring together. One thing he always remembered was her warm smiles whenever he snuck up on her; whether she knew or not didn't matter, those smiles made it all worth it. He did it so often, generally just to see that smile and hear her call him her "little ninja". It was what he clung to when, at seven, she stopped saying it and her smiles became more strained, more tired. By then, there was also an older man in the house, supposedly someone his mother loved very much. Paul believed her, but he wasn't so sure the man felt the same for her. He often heard him yelling at her, heard the ugly words he said when she wasn't around. He heard the unmistakable sound of someone hitting the floor or of a fist hitting flesh. She never fought back, not once, until he turned his attention to Paul. 

Honestly, it was his fault. 

He only ever heard what was going on. He'd never seen it happen. Somehow, that made all the difference to his seven year-old mind. He had come down for dinner, rounding the corner just in time to see the man's fist hit his mother's cheek. He froze as she let out a cry, her body hitting the floor. That noise brought Paul out of his stupor and he leveled the meanest look he could muster at the man, fists clenching. The man took it in stride, glowering at Paul. 

"What're you gonna do about it?" he sneered. 

He caught the guy by surprise when Paul darted into the room and landed a solid blow between his legs. He backed up, over his mother's sprawled form as the man let out a gasping wheeze, landing on his knees as he cupped his genitals. He breathed deeply a few times before levering a look at Paul, one that made the child's blood run cold. 

"You're gonna regret that," the man said, shakily getting to his feet. "Gonna _make you_ regret ever putting your hands on me." 

The next thing Paul knew, he was on the floor, ears ringing and head pounding. He could feel someone on him, _over_ him, and large hands around his throat. Distantly, he heard his mother screaming...whatever happened next was lost. Forgotten. There were echoes of pain, anger, and fear, but that was it. The next couple years were a blur of anxiety, running from the man his mother once loved. It all culminated when he was nine and he was called into the principal's office, only to be told his mother had gone missing. A few days later, her body was found mutilated in a ditch and their home was on fire. Paul never found out if anything survived or if they even arrested the guy responsible. Almost immediately, he was put into foster care with nothing but his backpack and the clothes he was wearing. 

And so began a cycle. A cycle that was, in a way, far too familiar for Paul's liking. Most of the family's didn't care much of the children they were meant to look after. Often, the homes were overcrowded and noisy. The real trouble started when Paul was about fifteen. Oh, he was already The Weird One, interacting with everyone, but keeping them all at a distance. He fiercely protected what was his, which sometimes got him into a spot of trouble, enduring lectures of sharing and being nice to the other kids. His protests often went unheard and usually, it meant being shuttled off to another home after being disciplined for his behavior. 

But what really set him apart from most of the kids was when he discovered his sexual interests were a bit far from what many would call the norm. He figured he was a little different from the other boys, but he didn't let that stop him. When he became the target of those boys, and even some girls, and the adults stood by and did nothing, he took up martial arts. He also took up a number of jobs to keep him out of the home for as long as possible. For a while, it worked and he grew into a man he often hoped his mother would be proud of. 

He soon aged out of the system and moved in with people he knew from his various odd jobs. They all seemed like nice people, but he always kept them at a distance; old habits die hard, after all. Eventually, Paul started to feel closed in, so he packed up and moved out with little more than a note saying where he went. He wandered for a while, hopping from place to place, bed to bed, always feeling restless, itchy under the skin. He spent his twenties that way, gathering friends-yet-not-friends everywhere he went, charming his way into jobs and beds. One time, he thought he'd found someone that he could maybe see himself being with, having a home with. But it was all a lie, wrapped up in a deceptively charming package that he fell utterly and completely for. His mother's last words rang in his ears in those days; " _Trust no one. They all have a reason for doing what they do and often, they do it to make themselves feel like they have all the power and you have none. Don't let anyone get close enough to get under your skin, alright? I love you. Be safe._ " 

Regardless of his experience and training, Paul felt helpless for the first time in a very long time. He figured that this might have been how his mother felt for the man she loved that later killed her. Maybe that's what'll happen to him, even if he escapes... 

But then the dead started coming back to life and eating people and his ex was one of the first to fall in those early days. Paul managed to escape, with nothing but a backpack and the clothes he was wearing. 

And he'd never felt freer.

**Author's Note:**

> I might add more post-world ending and before he meets Daryl and Rick, but it could take a bit.


End file.
